


Extrapolation

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The missionary position," said John. "You've handed me the Kama Sutra and directed me to the missionary position."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extrapolation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amélie_Mochitalia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Am%C3%A9lie_Mochitalia).



Interesting. It was a young man's game, that much was obvious. Mycroft must have been bluffing when he said what he did about testing the book from cover to cover. On the other hand... Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft had spent his Cambridge days aggressively making up for the work-life imbalance he accurately predicted for his future. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and snapped the book closed. 

Through his door, the television was still muttering to itself. How long had John been out there? 

Sherlock put down the book and opened his door. "John!" he called through the kitchen. "John!"

John, to his credit, not longer came running. Sherlock was pleased, for the most part, that John Watson was nobody's poodle. On cases, it was infuriating.

Instead: "Sherlock!" he yelled back, eyes still trained on the television.

"The Emperor's New Groove, John, really?"

"Really," said John. "Wait, how did you--never mind."

John should really know better than that by now. "I make it my business to watch each film my nephew watches."

John was up now, shedding his blanket and muting the television. "You have a nephew?!?"

Really. "Must we shout across the kitchen?"

John sighed and made his way over to Sherlock. Sherlock turned into his bedroom. John followed him. Sherlock sat on his bed. John planted himself in front of Sherlock, his arms crossed. "So. You have a nephew?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Mycroft's son."

Sherlock detested hyperbole, but it did seem for a moment as if John's eyes would pop out of his head. "Mycroft _reproduced_? Or..." he was actually backpedaling now, to continue with the unnecessarily flowery imagery. Backpedaling at a speed beloved of the liberal foot-in-mouthers. "Or he adopted or something? Or used a surrogate? Or--"

"Yes, John, thank you, I am aware of the full range of procreative possibilities."

John rolled his eyes. "So?"

"Mycroft is a traditionalist," said Sherlock with disdain. "Page fourteen."

John blinked. "Sorry?"

Sherlock picked up the book and handed it to John. "Page fourteen," he repeated.

John read the cover, went scarlet, but opened it and flipped to page fourteen. Once there: "The missionary position," said John. "You've handed me the Kama Sutra and directed me to the missionary position."

"Tried and tested," said Sherlock, "or so I am reliably informed."

"How could you possibly know-- Wait, no, no, don't tell me," said John. "I don't want to know." He closed his eyes as if to delete the image doubtless dancing there.

"Mycroft delights in collecting areas of expertise," said Sherlock. "He persists in keeping me informed of the topics of which I am ignorant. It is tedious."

"But this..." John trailed off. He glanced down at the book again, and then up at Sherlock. "After everything Irene said, I wasn't going to ask, but..."

"I hardly claim to be an expert in everything--"

John snorted.

Sherlock glared, and continued, "--but I do like to think of myself as existing apart from such petty emotions as shock, surprise, incomprehension, and so on."

"But, look," said John, finally taking a seat beside Sherlock on the bed, still holding the book open to page fourteen. "Look, everyone feels those things from time to time. It's perfectly ordinary."

"But I am not!" exclaimed Sherlock. "And if there is something I can do to rectify the situation, I will do it."

"What--" John began, but he obviously found it difficult to continue once Sherlock's mouth was on his.

The kissing itself was fairly rote. This much Sherlock had done before, albeit unwillingly, in sixth form with Marjorie Higgins. She had been desperate, and he had settled on writing the whole experience off as a dull yet necessary fact finding expedition when she had stuck her hand down his pants. There had the experiment ended, with Marjorie visibly holding back tears and Sherlock repressing the urge to take out his notebook and record the entire incident then and there. Perhaps some people found it easy. After all these years, Sherlock was still examining his findings.

So the kissing was nothing new. John, though, was wide-eyed and when he moved his head back Sherlock let him go.

"What," said John, observationally. And then, again, " _What_?"

"It will be difficult," said Sherlock, "to continue in my work with the knowledge I now possess."

John stared, and then lifted a hand, obviously an invitation to proceed.

"Consider Irene Adler. Motivated by unfamiliar, or at least unexpected, desires, she allowed herself to be compromised. She was," Sherlock loaded the word heavy with disdain, " _surprised_. She was caught _off guard_. She didn't understand herself, and she certainly didn't understand me. She found me unpredictable. It was as if I was speaking a foreign language."

"How do you know all that?" said John, his voice a little higher than usual.

"Because," said Sherlock darkly, "I felt the same. I couldn't read her. She was an enigma wrapped in an aesthetically pleasing, supple, and suitably curved flesh exterior wrapped in clothing designed to show her to advantage."

"Jesus," said John, faintly.

"I am not, myself, devoid of desire," Sherlock continued. "In the past it's struck me as nothing more than a colossal distraction. Society is so wrapped up in sex and the seeking of it that they go about the rest of their business with half their attention. The bother of it. Ridiculous."

John was still staring, in that way he stared when he wasn't sure of the appropriate response. Sherlock should conclude, then.

"And yet I have come to realize that in shutting myself off from such a significant factor in day to day human interactions, I am the one flying half blind. Their motivations elude me. I may reach an approximate understanding of events, but I have no experiences to draw on myself. Empathy is boring, but extrapolation is a useful shortcut. That, John, is where you come in."

John coughed. "Excuse me?"

"This book has only gotten me so far," said Sherlock. "It is time to move from theoretical to experimental. My own sexual experience, notes, and conclusions, will serve as a promising beginning to my new project: the better understanding of human irrationality. For this, I need, as it were, a lab partner. I understand that you may not wish to take part and that is entirely your prerogative but unless I have been misreading the situation I can't imagine you're averse."

"Oh," said John, "ahem." He shifted, slightly, uncomfortably, and Sherlock realized that he must be aroused. It wouldn't do to check. They would get to that eventually, and in the meantime John's face was proving fascinating. "You lured me in here," John said.

"Yes."

"You lured me in here with _Disney_ and _Mycroft_."

"You are unusually easy to lure."

"And you are a twat," said John. He was smiling now, and Sherlock felt something in his chest tighten. Interesting. "Why didn't you just ask?"

"I did ask."

"Like a normal person?"

Sherlock hesitated. Normal was boring, but John knew that. Or rather, John new that Sherlock knew that. Or rather, John would be unsurprised at the thought. And yet...Sherlock reevaluated. John couldn't know it. John looked normal. People thought he was normal. Women liked John because he was normal.

John wasn't boring. John was fascinating. John had all the answers to the questions Sherlock never thought to ask.

"Please," said Sherlock. "Won't you come in? And once in, won't you go to bed with me?"

\-------

John took the lead. It was out of necessity, but, Sherlock was interested to note, also appeared to be motivated by something deeper. Whatever the reason, John was the one who went back to his bedroom for the condoms, John was the one who talked Sherlock through what was about to happen bit by bit with scientific precision, offering him several avenues of escape and modes of reversal. Sherlock refused every one. This was happening. This was happening with John. This was happening now.

Something was wrong with Sherlock's brain. The experiment was already a failure. He couldn't possibly remember notes in this state. Not with John above him like that, not with John pushing in like that, not with John's hand right there, oh, like that, like that, oh, like that.

Sherlock made every effort to concentrate, to catalog the rate of John's breathing, of his own. The density of the sweat collecting on John's brow and the frequency with which he blinked it out of his eyes. The sounds their bodies made. The sounds _they_ made. "Oh God," said John. "Sherlock," said John. " _Fuck_ ," said John. "This feels..." said John. "Oh _God_!" said John.

For a second, Sherlock lost track of everything. It was terrifying. His mind was blank and he felt like crying for the first time since...he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember! It was...

It felt good. It felt _really_ good. It felt better than anything he had done to himself or put in himself in those days after Uni and before Lestrade let him in. His chest was heaving and his chest was sticky and John had rolled off to the side and all of a sudden it was really important to find John, to touch John, to--as revolting as the sugary sentiment would otherwise be--to hold John. He stuck his arm out and took John's hand.

John scooted over and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "You know," he said, winded, "the first time usually isn't that good. You may want to factor that into your conclusions."

Sherlock blinked. Sherlock tried to focus. Sherlock was surprised. Damn. The more you knew, the more there was to find out. Sherlock grinned. It was involuntary, but John caught it and grinned himself and then it was entirely voluntary. "Not that good?" said Sherlock, taking note of the new quality in his voice. Was it permanent? Likely not. It sounded too content for permanence.

"Is there room in your notebook for another experiment?" said John. "I reckon I can produce even better results."

"By all means," said Sherlock, all context gone, and a new context only beginning to form. "Proceed."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to my dear Amélie_Mochitalia, who prompted me with: Sherlock/John, book, and [The Emperor's New Groove](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1WDAV9FQC8).
> 
> Disclaimer: I certainly don't think you have to have had sex to understand the human condition, or whatever it is Sherlock's on about in this story. (I don't think he's realized it himself, but I suspect all of the above is just a shoddy excuse to do something he's been meaning to do.)


End file.
